The Lacking Permanence

A distinctive female voice fronting a standard indie combo is not the most exciting formula, but Big Thief has a penchant for weird flourishes and unexpected changes that keeps things interesting

The carpenter took a leisurely walk around the perimeter. In the weird light cone projected by the light they had installed at the top of the can, the ropes they had used to rappel down looked like the undulating tentacles of a mysterious jellyfish. Outside the cylindrical building that very deliberately resembled an oversized Coca Cola can, the security guard’s radio played Chicago sambas into the crisp Manitoba evening as he idly played his flashlight over the bushes outside. The choreographer stifled a giggle. On one of the ornithopters parked atop the domed top, next to an opening that looked like someone forgot to bring a canopener, a single LED began to blink. The mission was running out of time.

Verring wildly from soft-funk to outright garage fuzz, this wouldn’t be out of place coming out the AM radio and windows of a 1974 Maverick.

Forward-looking dance funk, the kind of music that immediately makes you grab the closest person by the wrist and drag them to the dance floor.

Modern electronic soul, richly layered and intricately produced, with decidedly old-fashioned influences from ‘60s girl groups, ‘70s AM radio, ‘80s club hits, and so on.

Simpson made a name for himself with introspective Americana, but this injects a confusing high-energy EDM element, with mixed results. I imagine die-hard ZZ Top fans felt the same way about “Eliminator”.

The Sasha river was running dry, and the aerialist maneuvered his craft to take advantage of the fact. As they moved swiftly along the crumbling banks, exoskeletal legs easily scrabbling over the terrain in an unearthly three-limbed gait, they encountered sun-baked sections where a trickle fed a series of pools on the cracking river bottom, animals congregated around them in a temporary truce. They hadn’t seen a human since Saturday, a fact that concerned the actuary more than the dry river, and the attempted distraction of some Guatemalan gamelan techno was not working. In its steel box, the package of Peanut Butter Crunch patiently rustled and awaited its delivery.

A rowdy, loving tribute to The Cramps, even rawer and more intransigent than the original, from two women furiously channeling Lux Interior and Poison Ivy.

Layers of samples, voices, music, found audio, sound effects, and other bizarre elements make up these haunting compositions from the masters of audio collage.

Delightfully twee songs, filled with shimmering melodies, sparkling production, and heavenly choruses.